What I Had Before I Had You

by Sarah Cornwell

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  THE FIRST TIME I see my sisters, I am fifteen years old. It is June, and the ocean is just warm enough for swimming. I am floating on my back out past the farthest buoy. If I turn my head, I can see the beach, glutted with tourists, rising above and dipping below each wave swell. The world appears and vanishes, is and isn’t, is and isn’t. Sometimes the lifeguard is sitting, and sometimes he is standing up on his white wooden tower, shading his eyes. The closest swimmers are some forty yards off, a few old ladies doing the crawl, their crepe-paper elbows rising and falling. A wave breaks against my face, and I sputter under the water, come up coughing.

  Yards away from me bob two pale redheaded girls. For a moment, we watch one another. Our shoulders work as we tread water out of rhythm. They are so familiar. They look like someone I once knew and have forgotten. Their noses are narrow, and their mouths turn down at the corners. Their cheekbones make high planes that hold the sun. At first I think they are identical, but then I see that they are not—that one is made of sharper angles, and the other has a slight pouty overbite. Their eyes are green, and though their hair is dark with water, I can see that it is my mother’s hair.

  “Sorry, we didn’t see you,” calls the sharp-angled girl. Her voice is a buttery alto. “Courtney was splashing me.”

  “That’s okay,” I say. I kick harder to keep my head above water. I know they are my sisters with a sureness of intuition that I have never felt but have heard my mother describe all my life, like the sureness of the ground to a falling thing. This is it: my first vision, my birthright.

  Courtney turns to her sister, and they are caught up in each other. “Race me?” They dive and disappear, and though I watch for them, I do not see them again that day.

  THIS IS WHAT I think of as I lane-weave up the Garden State Parkway in a rented convertible: my sisters in the water that first time. Heat blurs the horizon, where cars become indistinct and then vanish. Ahead, too far to see: Ocean Vista. I am expecting this fate for us, too; when we get close enough, we will flicker and fade. By the time we arrive, we could be totally invisible.

  Carrie is rhythmically kneeing my seat back to the beat of whatever she’s listening to on her iPod. Beside me in the front seat, Daniel sits with his two small hands twined together in his lap, index fingers pressing acupressure points on his inner wrists to stave off carsickness. His father taught him this, and Daniel believes in it so firmly that it works. His eyes are closed, and he looks like a little yogi. I chose the convertible from the rental-car menu because I thought it would be fun, but the kids complained until I put the top up—Carrie afraid of messing up her hair, Daniel afraid he would somehow get sucked out of the car.

  “It’s impossible to get sucked out,” I tell him. “Gravity holds you in your seat. Otherwise you’d be floating right now, and you’re not, right?”

  “No,” he says, unconvinced.

  Carrie whispers to him, “That’s ’cause the top is up.” I try to catch her eye in the rearview mirror. She is wearing giant tortoiseshell sunglasses. She is supposed to help me. Carrie is discovering her power, now that it’s just the three of us, and I don’t like the devilish tilt of her mouth in the rearview. Who is this spiteful sunglassed person?

  I have promised the kids a trip to the beach before we continue up to New York, part of a larger campaign of fun detours and ice cream for breakfast with which I am trying to buy their complicity. I thought I might score points by showing them where I grew up, as if sole custody means that I owe them more explanation, more background, more proof of myself. I thought: We’ll buy a box of taffy, we’ll chase the waves. It’s something I can give them so easily. But now, as we near Ocean Vista, I am starting to feel squeamish. That sound, tires on asphalt. The slack gum-chewing boy who pumped our last tank of gas. The white globes of dandelions in the tall grass. I can almost see myself, a wild, skinny kid, sepia-tinged, running alongside our car behind the guardrail through the untended highway scrub.

  We are traveling light, having failed to pack all kinds of necessary things: Carrie’s mouth guard, my reading glasses, Daniel’s favorite dinosaur. These things will be waiting for us at the Seventy-third Street house in a moving pod, but for now, we miss them acutely; we let them stand in for other things. In Austin we kept a henhouse and two cats. The cats are being schlepped up to New York by a pet transportation company, but the hens have been left to individual and varied fates. We named them for old Hollywood actresses: Betty Grable, Rita Hayworth, Jayne Mansfield. I wonder which Sam has sold and which eaten.

  “Are we going to see your house?” Daniel asks.

  “No,” I tell him. “They tore it down. It’s a Wendy’s now.”

  “What about your school?”

  “Nope, that’s gone, too.” This time I’m lying. I think of the stone turrets, the uniformed girls lining up on the lawn for fire drills, the shrill, doughy teachers.

  “What if Dad tears down my room now that I’m gone?” Daniel asks me. I know he doesn’t really believe this will happen; he just wants me to confirm for the millionth time the fixed nature of the world. He is worried, lately, by the concept of solipsism, though he wouldn’t know to call it that. That the whole world dissolves when he closes his eyes.

  “Your father would never do that. Where would you sleep when you go back to visit?”

  I drive. I drift. Suddenly, seamlessly, I am in the passenger seat and my mother is at the wheel. We are driving home from New York in the rain, at night. The highway is blank and slick. We have been to the Broadway production of Annie, and now it is late and I am tired and thoughtful, and she has made me wear itchy tights, which I am plucking at with my thumb and forefinger. I have just asked her Daniel’s question, or some variation, and she is feeding me the same line.

  “No,” she says. “That house is gone. There was a fire.”

  I can’t tell what she is thinking about: poker-faced, her eyes trained on the road, her thick auburn hair twisted and tied at the nape of her neck. The past, I feel in this moment, is something that parents dangle in front of their children, something hoarded and valuable that we can never touch. They pretend to share, pulling out the old albums at Christmastime, but under their breath, they are saying, This is what I had before I had you.

  “Burned out, boarded up.”

  I WAS MY mother’s only living child. She told me that when the twins were stillborn, they were so pretty the nurses cried. They were like china dolls, she said, not the froggy fetuses you see in pictures. Little perfect girls: four perfect hands, teeth like grains of salt. Before they were taken away, she held them in her hands, and she said she could feel their goodness and their love, and she knew they would never leave her. The nurses couldn’t understand her stoicism, but then, she said, the nurses were limited thinkers. Death was a black door at the end of a long hospital corridor, which they left, obediently, closed.

  A year later, I was fis
hed out premature, head down, heels up, screaming at the brightness of the outside world. My mother told me when I was old enough to listen that my sisters had become the stars in the sky and the shadows of bumblebees on grass; that I had two infant ghosts following me through life and I would never be alone.

  We lived off the Garden State Parkway on the inland edge of Ocean Vista, where semitrucks roared by in the early morning. When I was a child, sometimes my mother took me out to see the car wrecks, and we held hands while paramedics lifted the living and the dead onto gurneys. I remember the dangling of hands from gurney edges, gnarled and smooth and white and black and small and large and one with a ruby ring the size of a june bug on the index finger.

  “You see, Olivia?” My mother’s voice traveled down to me from above. “Death isn’t so serious.” The mangled metal smoked and the policemen shook their heads, hats in their hands. I remember the tentative heat of a May morning and the circling of a gull, lost too far inland. I can see the small rusted-through place in the car door that had landed on the asphalt near where we stood, the circle of wine-red rust and the dark of the pavement through it, like the pupil of an eye. I had a sense, even then, of the difference between my mother’s sight and mine. She looked out over the parkway into the trees, watching the flight of a soul, while I toed the debris and thought about lunch.

  My mother’s name was Myla Reed. She was a psychic and very beautiful. Men and women—but mostly men—came to our house to hear her read the tarot or trace the future in their palms. When I was home, I would bring her clients tea and sugar wafers before she took them into her study. Then I would run outside to look at their cars and decide whether or not I liked them by the stuff on the passenger seat or, if the car was unlocked, by the stuff in the glove compartment. A few of her clients were from Ocean Vista and a very few were tourists, but most were from unknown inland towns and sought her out for her remoteness and discretion as well as her renown. When clients left, we discussed them—if their hair was real, if they were flatulent or otherwise hilarious, if the questions they asked revealed loneliness or chaos, spleen or secrets.

  We were so much alone together that my memories of childhood are almost entirely of my mother and the ways she animated our house: the folk songs she sang while she dried the dishes, the fuzzy rings her wineglasses left on all surfaces, books left open to their cracked spines. We were never bored, unless it was our pleasure to be bored. We went on adventures: spy missions, animal rescues, picketing campaigns for environmental groups, random acts of kindness. On Saturdays we parked by the boardwalk and sat in the Atlantic surf, eating pizza gritty with sand. She said she could hear the talk underneath talk, and when I was very young, I trusted that my thoughts were laid out for her to read like a played hand of cards. As I grew, I found that I was wrong—that I could hold my thoughts away from her, and this discovery made me bolder but lonelier, too.

  I TAKE DANIEL and Carrie straight to the beach. We have our bathing suits on under our clothes; all day we have been slightly uncomfortable. I drive the last few blocks into town, and it feels like twenty years scissored away. The businesses have changed—the pizza parlors no longer Sal’s but Al’s, chain restaurants and gas stations where there used to be homes. But the fundamental structure of the streets and intersections has remained and recalls to me my bike swiveling beneath my slighter weight, a turn here, a jump there over those ancient tree roots. The people, too, are unchanged: feathery-haired women reaching out with fists full of sunscreen for their tomato-red, indifferent husbands; little girls running on cracked sidewalks with neon toenails and knotty hair; leaning, watchful men outside the bars. I suspect that these are, in fact, the same people I remember, eternally damned to haunt the coast of New Jersey.

  Daniel and I wait for Carrie outside the public restrooms on the boardwalk, leaning against the whitewashed wall, feeling the bright burn of the paint on our backs. The beach is smaller than I remembered. Gulls fight in the air. My bathing suit is a somber black one-piece, widow swimwear. I see a group of teenagers hanging on the boardwalk fence, spiked and gelled and pierced, with hard expressions, and I feel an impulse to join them.

  “We’re going to miss it. She always makes us miss things.” Daniel unsticks himself from the wall and starts to pace, lionish, with great pouncing steps. He is very small for a nine-year-old, my little fish, my lima bean. He can fit in a standard packing box. I can’t tell yet if this pouncing thing is fun or serious, but I would like to head it off either way, so I dig a root beer out of my beach bag. It’s pill time, anyway.

  “You want a soda?” I ask. He shakes his head and continues to pounce. “We can’t miss it, Daniel fish. The beach is always there.”

  “How do you know?”

  A good question. “Tell you what,” I say. “Any beach time we lose, we’ll make up tomorrow. What do you think?”

  Daniel belly-screams, doubling over from pure vocal force, and then catches his breath in quick shallow gasps. An old couple turns to look at us as they pass. I hand him his root beer, and he throws it on the ground. I pick it back up and wait for the fizz to subside. I see him hooked by this, the bubbles burning away, so I set the bottle on the boards, and he squats to watch. Then I open it and he drinks. I dig his pills out of my purse and hand him one; he holds it in his palm until I’ve found my own. We count one two three and gulp them down, handing the soda back and forth.

  “Is root beer beer?” he asks me.

  “No.”

  “Dad let me have beer.” He looks at me expectantly, but he has told me this three or four times in the last few days, and I am not shocked. He means a sip. Daniel wants me to be more outwardly angry; he doesn’t understand why we are getting this divorce, and how could he? It would be a lie to say it has nothing to do with him, and Daniel can always tell when we are lying. Carrie trudges back from the ladies’ room, still wearing her headphones. She is wearing a pink-and-black striped bikini, and her shoulder blades are like sharp wings.

  “Carrie!” I saw the pink-and-black halter ties poking out of her T-shirt earlier, but I assumed they belonged to a one-piece. She knows I can’t enforce the rules right now.

  “What, it’s all I brought,” she says, and then focuses on something beyond me. “Mom?” she says. “Daniel.”

  My son is sitting on a bench five feet away, already deep in conversation with a sunken-cheeked man wearing a salmon-colored undershirt and jeans so caked in filth that I can’t tell if they are blue or black. Daniel’s face is rapt, his mouth pinched with listening.

  I call out, “Daniel? Come on, let’s swim.” I approach, and the salmon man appraises me. They are two together and I am one alone. Daniel says, “Mom, Mom, Mom! This is Mr. Carpenter. Can I go on his boat?” The man’s hands, resting on his thighs, shake with delirium tremens.

  “We don’t have time for that, Daniel fish. Come on.” I hold out my hand to my son. His lip quivers.

  “We have time, you said we can borrow time from tomorrow.”

  “We don’t talk to strangers.”

  “Yes, we—” he starts, and I grab his hand. Daniel goes limp so that when I pull on his hand, his whole body slides from the bench onto the boards, and he lands hard on his shoulder. I hate this trick. On the ground, he begins to rage. He rolls onto a dropped paper plate soaked through with grease. He grabs my ankle, and I feel one of his fingernails pull a line through my skin. “I want to go on a boat! I’ve never been on a boat, he said we could go on his boat and I want to!”

  I crouch over him and pin his right bicep with my knee. Let this be a short one. I am still holding on to his other wrist. I try to rub his back with my free hand as he jerks around. “Stop it,” I say sharply. How many times have I been gentle and enduring? Carrie has moved a safe distance away and stands scowling, shading her eyes with her hands, trying to blend in to the gathering crowd. “Daniel fish, my love, find your calm thought. Find your quiet room and go insid
e.”

  “I hate you!” he yells. “I want to be dead. I want to be dead and not have any more thoughts.”

  “Let’s go swimming,” I say.

  He writhes and shrieks. People watch. I know what they are thinking. Why am I holding him down like this? They would be gentler or more firm; their children don’t act like this. I pull him to his feet and yank him along with me. He hacks out his sobs. People step back to let us pass, and I hate them all.

  I lead Daniel out onto the beach, where the sand is still painfully hot at four in the afternoon. Overhead, the sun is glancing bright like a coin. Daniel’s fingers twitch in my palm. Carrie trails after us, kicking the sand. Daniel and I step out of our shoes and run until the surf slaps at our shins. When we are deep enough, I let go of him and dive, and I open my eyes underwater just long enough to see his white legs through the green salt murk, like two lily stalks. He is still crying up there in the air.

  Sam has eaten my hens. Carrie is growing up mean. Daniel says he wants to die. If I trace things back to their roots, in every case I find myself to blame: the unfaithful wife, the cold mother, the poor role model, the flawed chromosome. I would like to burrow into the sand like a worm and sleep. I would like to close my eyes and emerge from the ocean young and blameless. I could just bike back home and go inside and find my mother singing in the kitchen, slicing avocados with a shining knife. My mother’s hair is flame and her skin is paper. She cuts the fruit cleanly and it falls apart, the perfect pit rolling out like a glass eye that looks at me. I would like her to say that she forgives me, but even in my imagination, I can’t make her speak.